Summer pickings

About two weekends ago we drove up to Germantown in Maryland to visit Butler's Orchard and we were delighted! The drive is about 40 minutes from the district and if had kept going north for 45 minutes more, we would have arrived at Gettysburg. We are dying to visit some historic towns, and Gettysburg is on our list for the next road trip. The Orchard produces yearly harvests of seasonal favorites. We were there to pick our own blackberries, which ashamed as I am to admit, I had never seen this fruit on the tree. It was a first for Emilu and I. And we loved it. Glorious roads of blackberry fields that seem to never end.  And I loved that it was all so green and cheap!  A small quart in the supermarket is almost always around four or five dollars.  We got a pint for less than three dollars!  Much better than farmer's markets. Next time we go, we will pick apples and raspberries. Oh we can't wait!

Expats + other musings and links

Look around and tell me how many people you know are from another part of the world.  You are probably one of them.  For many, the call to roam extends beyond just a holiday – it’s about creating a new work-life balance, and finding fulfillment in a different country.  More than half of all my childhood friends, and relatives are living abroad, scattered around the globe.  They have left behind family and a way of life that they thought would be with them until the end of their days.  Whether this [population] mobility is driven by social, economic, or personal reasons, it's happening everywhere, and our generation is living proof. 

When I was younger, the mere talk of living abroad was sure to bring oohs and aahhs  around the room.  We heard stories of blissful snowy days, and huge super malls, long spreads of beautiful parks, flower markets and street cars, where theaters played back to back movie premieres and even the water tasted differently. Almost everyone had a family friend, a close relative or a neighbor living abroad whose return visit was always filled with anticipation. 

Most of us have adapted (assimilated) so well to living abroad, we can't fathom returning to our place of origin.  We even consider the legal adoption of our host country. We like it where we are, and are proud of what we have accomplished.  We participate fully in our communities abroad and have made life commitments in this new place we call home.  Anthropologists call this "acculturation." Nevertheless, some of us still see our families and friends back home, and even look forward to visiting our beloved land as periodically as we can.  Often, in situations where assimilation is inevitable or just the next reasonable course of action, we end up as chameleons, rather than as proper  expats.

But what happens when you find yourself experiencing a growing sensation of identity confusion?   Most of our lives we have been taught that identity is nontransferable, spawning from our mother land, our family rituals and our unique ethnicity. How do you fuse this acculturation into your identity?  Some of us think about these issues at some point in our abroad lives.  By having children, and raising that generation, we unwillingly step further away from our parent's generation.  At some point, you start thinking about family plots, wills, and what the future would look like without the place you come from as the point of reference.  That's a question in mind lately. Suddenly, putting down roots seems intensely nerve wracking. 

Anyway, did you know that the UK, and not the US, has the greatest number of expats around the world -about 3 million.  The Expat Dilemma is one we have all faced at one point in our lives. And sometimes, the expats are our parents.  Speaking of expats, have you seen this witty movie about young expats living in Barcelona? And this book comes highly recommended if you want to cure the tingling sensation of eternal wanderlust.  But if you prefer crime thrillers, then this expat book is for you.


~Credits~
Image 1: Pinterest (source:  www. frenchcx.com)
Image 2: Photo of Lost Girl Lindsey Tramuta, Photo by Elena Rossini
Image 3:  The Talented Mr. Ripley, 1999 (Paramount Pictures & Miramax Films via Word & Film)

All the pretty horses

Mr. T is a horse man who's married to my mother's cousin.  He raises Paso Fino horses, a breed  prized for their smooth, natural, four beat, lateral ambling gait. Considered the smoothest ride in the horse world. Their home is a ranch just outside the city, which houses 20 + horses in stables, and five dogs. This is where you want to live if you have country in your blood. My grandfather did.  A city-boy turned country man.  He had Paso Fino horses too.  He loved and admire this breed's gait. For their tap tap, which resembles a dance. I recently visited the ranch for the first time. The horses are exuberantly beautiful.

The horses are ridden everyday.  According to Mr. T, most horses love to be ridden.  They like to be useful, but also learn to enjoy working and being ridden, as long as they are ridden well and frequently praised.  He's had horses that have given him a sullen look when they are about to be ridden. You teach them to love the work and the ride. And eventually they do. Some horses could be finicky eaters.  There's one mare that doesn't like alfafa at all.  (Note:  Alfalfa is highly nutritious forage for horses)  He's tried to mix it with other grass hays to no avail.  She leaves it whole without as much as touching it. Funny horse.

Would it be a horse ranch without a pretty energetic fox terrier?  Lilly is playful, but very laborious.  She might not interact with the horses, but she's engaged in their care.

I enjoyed visiting the ranch.  Maybe one day, I can actually ride a horse, and feel the country breeze in my face.  Do you like horses? Have you visited a horse ranch before?

Grandpa's old farm

Growing up, grandpa's old farm was the idyllic place to spend the day during weekends. Through our innocent eyes, the farm was a place full of mystery and animals. My grandfather's mare was our ride of choice, and we could feed the pigs in their piggy quarters. There were chickens, fowls, and occasionally a few wild rabbits roaming everywhere. Today the farm animals are gone, with the exception of the 30 something year old mare, who gave birth to a colt soon after my grandpa's passing, and a old mule.  The colt is of no particular breed, more like a mutt, because we don't know who the father is.  He's what you call a country horse, goes by the name of San Miguel, and is my mother's fancy.  There are also four female dogs, formerly homeless and now living happily in the farm. 

My grandfather passed away three years ago. The lives of these animals are deeply anchored with the still beating heart of this farm. The farm may not be what it was once. But the animals give it life, and as long as they are here, the farm will too.

Little by little I'm learning to take pictures. It's not easy, even with a good camera. Sometimes, the picture you see in your head is not possible through the lens. I'm learning to appreciate the background, and see the possibilities. Photography is a school of self-discovery.